Page 51 of Imperfect Player

Not that I have many of those either. Nor have I ever brought anyone with me. Bringing Everly is going to create a shit storm, but I don’t care. For the first time in a long time, I feel good. Happy, even. As much as I hate to admit it, it has everything to do with her.

Not waiting for her answer, I fling my arm around her shoulders and lead her out the back entrance of the stadium. “You’ll have fun, I promise.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to one of these. Not since I quit drinking. Normally after a game, I head home, ice down, and rewatch the game to see where I fucked up and how I can improve. So when we walk in the door, the shit immediately begins.

“’Bout time you pulled your head out of your ass, Ambrose,” Slade teases.

Looks like Everly’s in for a treat. The guys seem to be in rare form tonight, hooting, hollering, and making total jackasses out of themselves. And me.

Maddox is standing on top of a fucking table. Even in the midst of a celebration from high up on the pedestal he put himself, Maddox sends me a warning look.

His eyes moving to Everly, he jumps from the table and heads over to her.

“Hey, babe,” Maddox says. He greets Everly then presses a kiss to her cheek. “What are you doing hanging around this guy?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Fox chimes in.

Fuck. Here we go.

“Didn’t think Ambrose knew how to be friends with a woman.” Fox chuckles.

“Let alone anyone,” Slade says.

I’m used to the ridicule. Especially from the three of them. Everly isn’t though. While the last thing I want or need is her fighting my battles for me, fuck if I don’t like the way it feels to have her on my side, having my back.

“Well maybe he can teach you how to be one because he does a damn good job.”

“Yeah, well, just watch out. Those pitchers like to use their hands,” Maddox says as he stares at me.

“Good to know,” Everly says, giving me a wink.

Pissed for all sorts of reasons that I still don’t understand, Maddox storms off. He might be willing to give me shit, but not Everly.

“What can I get you to drink?” I ask her.

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Just water for me tonight,” I tell her.

Her head tilts to the side. “I figured after a win like tonight you’d want to celebrate.”

When I was younger, I was never much of a drinker. It wasn’t until my demons caught up with me, the nightmares of my childhood, that I began to drink. So no, I don’t drink to celebrate. I drink to rid my mind of the demons.

These are all things that she should probably know, be warned about if she’s going to associate with me in any way. Things I’m too afraid to tell her out of fear that she’ll run the opposite way. As she should. So I deflect. What I don’t do is lie.

“Yeah, well, when I’m around you I have to keep my wits about me.”

Nothing truer than that. Fuck, one drop of alcohol after all these years might have me burying my head between her thighs.

“Just wine,” she says with a smile.

We stand off to the side, observing the room around us. This season has everyone going out of their minds. What is normally a nice, relaxed night is turning into a bit of a wild party. The idiots around us—my teammates—are acting like just that. Idiots.

“Oh my God, what is he doing?” Everly claps her hand over her mouth as Doug, the third baseman, attempts a headstand.

“Probably giving himself a broken neck,” I say, wincing as I watch him.

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